


In The Market For Loving You

by MyGirlfriendsAttic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Creeper Peter, Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, New Year's Fluff, Pack Bonding, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Sappy Ending, Stiles is oblivious, Yes you read that right, late night walmart adventures, loads and loads of fluff, pickled herring, sappy title, some Christmas fluff too, you could probably drown in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyGirlfriendsAttic/pseuds/MyGirlfriendsAttic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stiles went shopping for Derek and the Pack, and one time they went shopping for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Market For Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few references to sexual topics and alcohol, but I kept the rating to G because I didn't think they were anything too bad. Just a heads up! Also let me apologize before hand for the excessive amounts of fluff and sappiness in this fic. I couldn't control myself.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please feel free to leave reviews! <3

1.

Stiles’ back, meet wall. Again.

Stiles really should be used to this by now. He'd known for how long that Derek lacked proper social skills? Well, more like any social skills.

“Dude, this will never become okay to do,” Stiles wheezed as Derek pinned him against the wall. “Except in kissing scenarios, so let me reinstate that this will never be okay for you to do. Well, unless -”

“Stiles,” Derek said, voice all exasperated as if Stiles was the one being unreasonable. “Shut up.” 

“Well excuse me, at least I don't barge into other people's homes and shove them against walls - “

“I came here to discuss the fairy issue.” And God Derek should really stop interrupting him. That was going to be a good rant, too.

“Just because a couple of fairies decided to wreak some havoc in town doesn't mean you can violently assault me. Also, if it's research you want, I’m way ahead of you. I've already been researching for a few hours.” 

Derek didn’t look particularly impressed or even surprised, but fuck him, Stiles work deserved to be appreciated. It wasn’t like he had found anything useful on fairies, but, still. The point remained.

“There’s an occult shop a few towns over,” Derek pressed on. And wow, how did the entire population of Beacon Hills not realize he was a werewolf when he growled like that? It was a miracle really. “And we need malachite.”

“Mala what? I thought that was some sort of disease.” 

“It's a crystal. For protection. Against fairies.” 

“Ok, that's great. Amazing. And you can't go yourself because?” Stiles stretched the “e” out extra long, just because he knew it would annoy Derek.

“Mountain ash,” Derek said, rolling his eyes. 

Translation: werewolves were not welcome in witchy land. Got it. 

“Fine,” Stiles sighed, staring at his computer and uneaten bag of Cheetos wistfully. “How late are they open?”

“Until nine,” Derek said, far too cheerfully, in Stiles’ opinion.

Damn. There was still plenty of time to go tonight. “I hope you know,” Stiles said with perfect dignity as he tugged on his coat, “that I really, really hate you.” 

There went another Friday night.

(Never mind that Stiles didn't have any plans anyway.)

 

The occult shop was dimly lit, and there were a lot of strange things in jars that reminded Stiles vaguely of what he had thrown up that one time he got food poisoning. (Thanks Scott, for dragging him into eating poorly made gas station burritos.) But they did have malachite, and the person checking him out only gave him a couple of suspicious looks.

“Have a nice night,” Stiles tried.

The worker, a young man named Slander, looked unimpressed.

So much for customer service.

 

“I can't believe I wasted my Friday night getting some weird crystal that makes a bunch of fairies pass out,” Stiles grumbled when he saw the pack at the next meeting on Tuesday. “That is shady at best.” 

“I can believe it,” Jackson supplied.

“Yeah,” agreed Erica. “Of course you'd get us what we need. You're the mom.” 

Stiles spluttered. “The what? No seriously, what the actual hell?”

“You're the mom,” she repeated serenely. Stiles couldn't decide if it was more disturbing that she had said it in the first place, or that no one bothered to disagree. 

 

Stiles picked an unconscious fairy off of his shoulder with a combination of fascination and disgust. 

“Are we sure this is a fairy, and not like, some middle age man who got stuck in a dryer? Because I'm pretty sure fairies aren't supposed to have goatees.”

“Stereotypes,” Derek shrugged, because of course he would argue with Stiles on this. “Fairies aren't are all glowing girls, Stiles.” Something bordering on a teasing smile was curving up Derek’s lips, and nope, Stiles did not even want to look into that. No matter how attractive he refused to acknowledge it was.

“Oh shut up,” he snapped. “This is the last time I go shopping for you.” 

 

2.

It was miracle Derek even had a fridge, honestly. A real, running, giving off cold air and everything fridge. 

But this? This was still just sad.

“Do you seriously not have anything besides frozen dinners and a pudding cup?” Stiles demanded.

“It's Isaac’s pudding,” Derek said, as if that somehow made it better. “And why are you even here?” 

“Um, because it isn't healthy for you to be in this apartment all alone all the time, which I refuse to argue about with you again. Also, someone has to make sure you don't get some weird vitamin deficiency because you refuse to eat human food.” Stiles shut the fridge door and turned to face Derek, hands on his hips.

Derek raised a distinctive eyebrow at him.

Translation: your point, Stiles?

“Fine, don't appreciate me,” Stiles huffed, snatching his coat off the counter. “Just you wait, Sourwolf, just you wait.”

 

Jeez, real food was expensive. No wonder no one did the vegetable thing anymore. That much for broccoli? No thanks, Stiles could just face plant into grass for free. 

And Derek was so paying him back. Or well, technically it was his dad's money, but still. Stiles had to get repaid for this, because damn, chicken was expensive too.

And God, Stiles really didn't need to look into why he was doing this. Because then he would be forced to admit that maybe he actually cared about Derek, and then he would start having to face just how he cared about Derek, and then finally just how Derek didn't care for him.

Ah, the Holy Trinity of Pain.

So Stiles bought the stupid broccoli, eggs, bread, and chicken, and kept his mind carefully blank. 

 

“So you should probably keep the chicken and broccoli in the freezer, unless you want to eat some tonight,” Stiles said as Derek stared at him in what Stiles liked to think was appreciation, but what in actuality probably just amounted to bewilderment. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, sounding as if he was in actual physical pain. And jeez, couldn't a guy be grateful these days? “I know enough to keep frozen chicken in a freezer.”

“Well you have been living off of hot pockets for probably the last six years, so sorry if I'm a bit concerned for your adulting skills.”

When Stiles turned around, Derek suddenly looked even more constipated. 

“You bought me ice cream?” He said, staring down at the small tub of cookie dough chocolate chip as if it had just ripped his arm off and ate it.

“Um, impulse buy?” Stiles supplied. Derek looked unimpressed. “Fine. Ice cream is real food, ok? You need real food. Case closed.”

“Stiles,” Derek paused for a long while, as if shifting through pile after pile of words. The silence stretched on. “I mean. I don't actually know that much about preparing chicken.”

Stiles grinned. From Derek, that was practically a marriage proposal.

And yep, definitely not traveling down that road.

 

“Stiles,” simpered Erica the next night. “You were at Derek’s yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, not looking up from his lap top.

“And Derek mysteriously became in possession of actual food last night as well.”

“Yeah.”

“You bought him broccoli.” 

Stiles’ head snapped up. “Erica -” he warned.

“Yes, mom?”

“Just do your damn homework.”

 

3.  
The thing was, being a human running with a pack of werewolves, and risking his life and lying to his dad every other weekend, all while simultaneously juggling school and lacrosse, was actually pretty stressful. Stiles felt the need for a decompressor practically crushing him sometimes.

And he was not a yoga person, okay, he did not bend like that. (And really, it was just freaky and wrong that anyone could.)

Baking was out too, because while he could whip up some frozen chicken and an occasional damn good omelette, anything with an actual recipe usually ended in a disaster. A smoky, extra stressful disaster. Which completely defeated the purpose.

And then Stiles found it - his calling.

“That'll be 19.70,” the middle aged woman checking him out said in a cheery voice. “And may I say, I absolutely love your yarn choice!”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, grinning. He could practically feel the stress melting off of him already. 

So far, the only knitting creation he had made was a lopsided sock with no companion, but Stiles still decided it was a damn good sock. And that it was time to set his sights higher.

The other thing was, the pack could never find out. Stiles could handle his dad finding out, because that was the least of the secrets he was worried about (* cough cough * werewolves), but Derek? Erica? No way. Stiles wanted to die with some shreds of dignity intact.

 

“You knit?” Derek asked, his voice slightly strangled.

Stiles glared at him, clutching the thin towel around his body a little bit tighter. Stiles wondered if he was imagining Derek’s eyes tracking the movement. “Could you please learn to use a door? And would you put that down?!” Stiles squawked, ripping his half knit hat back, and sighed, staring down at it.

There was no way around it. The knitting was out of the bag. Agent K was compromised.

And Stiles was also half naked in front of Derek Hale, so really, that whole dignity idea just got tossed out the window. 

“I didn't know you knitted,” Derek continued, still looking slightly bewildered and … impressed? Which didn't make any sense at all. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Stiles snapped, shoving his knitting into his closet while simultaneously trying to keep his towel up. 

Derek furrowed his brow. “I'm not laughing,” he said decisively.

“What?” 

“I'm not laughing,” he repeated, shrugging. “I think it's...cool.”

Stiles squawked then because - oh my god. “Did you just use the word cool? When talking about knitting? And me? What has this world come to?”

Derek rolled his eyes, crossing the room to sit on Stiles computer chair. “Well I guess I could take it back, if that's your reaction.”

“Nope, no take backs, you think I'm cool,” Stiles grinned, forgetting that he had on only a towel and should probably be experiencing intense self consciousness if anything. 

“I never said you were cool,” Derek sighed. But his tone had that fond exasperation that Stiles now knew translated into, 'Oh Stiles, your wit truly does keep me on my hairy toes.' Or something like that. 

“Semantics,” he said, waving a hand. “I read between the lines, bro.”

Derek raised his eyebrows, taking in the sight of Stiles. “Are you ever going to get dressed?”

 

It took Stiles an hour after Derek had left to realize that the other boy hadn't discussed pack business even once. For the whole three hours.

 

“Sooo, Christmas is coming up,” Erica began. 

“Happy Holidays,” Stiles interjected dryly. “Happy Hanukkah, Christmas, and Kwanzaa, because I respect other traditions, unlike some heathens I know.” 

“Anddd,” she continued, as if she hadn't heard him at all. “The pack is exchanging gifts. Which you should know, since you're the mom.”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but then wondered what he'd really gain from it. He sighed in defeat. “What size?”

“Seven in women's,” she supplied immediately. “And Stiles?”

“I refuse to buy you shoes and a purse.”

“Point taken, but that wasn't what I was going to say. What I was going to say, is that Derek is in desperate need of a hat. If only to cover his hideous ears.”

“Your entire face is hideous,” Stiles grumbled nonsensically, trying to ignore the slight heat rising in his cheeks. How had Erica found out he could knit? “And who says I'm getting Derek a present?”

She laughed sharply. “Only your massive boner of love for him, sweetie.” 

She left Stiles alone on the sidewalk, mouth gaping and cheeks an angry pink. 

Really, why did he even shoot for dignity anymore?

 

A pair of silver high heels that had cost way too damn much (you’re welcome, Erica), a handmade ornament that looked vaguely like a flattened cat (Scott never was artistically inclined), and one slightly drunken Christmas party later, Stiles was still gathering enough courage to give Derek his present.

And maybe it was just because Stiles was half way in lo- (nope, not going there) like with Derek, but the handknit hat seemed too personal to give out in front of everyone else. And now Stiles was lingering as everyone filed out into the chilly air, hanging back awkwardly. Debating.

Was it really worth it giving Derek the hat in private? Really, what was it going to inspire, other than some confusion on Derek’s part? Stiles should just finish gathering his things, and escape while he could -

“Are you going to ever give me that?” Derek asked, looking surprisingly amused, eyes focused on the clumsily wrapped gift in Stiles’ hands.

“Um, that. This. What makes you assume it’s for you?” Stiles stuttered.

Derek sent a pointed gaze around the room now empty of people, but still littered with left over wrapping paper. 

“Touche. So um...well, here’s this. You can open it, I mean obviously, because it’s your present, but. Just. Please open it so I can stop talking.” Stiles shoved the lumpy package into Derek’s hands, and avoided eye contact.

Several breathless minutes passed to the tune of ripping paper, and then Stiles couldn’t take it any longer. He had to look up.

Derek looked...oh shit, Derek looked like he was about to cry.

“Oh shit, please don’t cry,” pleaded Stiles. “I know it’s not amazing, but it’s not that bad, okay? I really tried on it.”

Thankfully, the moment of sentimentality seemed to pass, Derek now shooting Stiles a slightly annoyed look. “It’s not bad,” he said gruffly. “It’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful. Stiles shook his head to clear himself of those words.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you like it.” And then he left, because words were dangerous, and so were feelings. Combined, they were deadly.

 

4.  
Stiles couldn’t exactly say that Wal Mart was his favorite place to be at 2 am, but the pack also needed to restock on first aid equipment, and after having no bandages for a seven inch cut down Scott’s back earlier that night, Stiles had called an emergency Wal Mart Mission.

“Such a mother,” Erica had called after as he left. He had flipped her off, knowing she could see him through the darkness with her wolfy vision. The asshole.

Wal Mart was, objectively, great. It was open 24/7, it provided semi decent first aid and food, and the nice woman at the bakery always told Stiles to have a nice day. The downside?

People Stiles knew went there, too. More specifically, Peter Hale went there.

“No,” Stiles said, attempting a daring 180 with his shopping cart. “Just no.”

“Now Stiles, that’s no way to treat an old friend,” Peter said easily, catching up to him. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles demanded.

Peter held up a small bottle of lube and a box of condoms, which Jesus, was more than Stiles ever wanted to know. “Late night emergency run,” Peter said with a sharp grin. “What about you? Running more chores for Derek? Knitting him anymore hats?”

Stiles decided not to deign that with a response. 

“Now, don’t get jealous simply because I have someone warming my bed, and you have yet to find anyone. You should look into that, though - it might help you decompress, without resorting to knitting.”

Stiles choked on air, angrily sputtering.

“So much like Derek at times,” Peter continued, grin sharpening into something deadly enough to kill bunnies upon sight. Or something. “Both lonely idiots, pining after what they could easily have. That’s why I live my life with my favorite motto - go after what you want. You both could take a leaf out of my book.”

Stiles came to a complete stop, jaw slack and eyes wide. “Are you saying that Derek - that Derek wants me?!”

Peter simply rolled his eyes. “Really Stiles? How could an observant man such as myself have missed it?”

“How? How do you … know?” Stiles felt at once enraptured by Peter’s words, and ridiculous. Here he was, roaming the aisles of Wal Mart with Peter Hale and discussing his relationship with Derek. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“I do have fully functioning eyes, Stiles,” Peter said. “Not to mention smell.” And then he was gone.

Well shit, thought Stiles. That couldn’t have gotten much more embarrassing.

5.  
“How did you know my order?” Derek asked, scrunching his eyebrows in a way that was just too adorable to be legal.

Stiles handed him the toothache inducing concoction he had bought him from Starbucks, and rolled his eyes.

“Seriously? I would have originally guessed your order would be black like your soul, but I've seen the way you scarf down the brownies I bring to pack meetings. So I bought you the sweetest thing on the menu.” 

“Oh,” said Derek, and Stiles could have sworn his cheeks were stained with red, but then again the wind was a bitch. That was probably it. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And then Derek sent Stiles a smile sweeter than the drink in his hand, and Stiles really hoped he'd make the same assumption about that whole wind thing. Stiles ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks.

He also tried desperately not to think of anything Peter Hale had ever said to him, or how he wanted Derek to smile at him like that every single damn day. 

 

+1  
Stiles never really told anyone about his family traditions - other than Scott, who already knew all there was to know about the Stilinskis. But the whole eating pickled herring for New Year's Eve dinner thing must have slipped out to the pack at some point. 

It was traditionally Polish, and in Poland, people ate it for good luck on New Years’ Day. Stiles’ mother had loved it, to the point where it ended up being a Stilinski tradition - maybe that was why they hadn't had it since her death. 

Sheriff Stilinski had always hated it with a passion (“Pickled? Really?”) but secretly Stiles had liked it almost as much as his mother had. He'd never complained about its absence after her death, though. Certainly not to his father. 

But he could feel it, every year at New Years, the poignant sharpness of his mother’s absence. The lack of her warm presence in the house, the lack of her favorite dish on the table, punched a hole in Stiles’ chest that refused to heal.

He supposed he must have given out some summary of this to the pack, because here he was. New Year’s Eve, at Derek’s apartment, and there was pickled herring on the table. It radiated heat and a delicious aroma, and the pack was gathered around the table, grinning idiotically at Stiles. (Except for Jackson, who just looked vaguely irritated and hungry.)

For a group of poorer, idiotic werewolves, it really was a feat. And no, those were not tears in Stiles’ eyes. He was just allergic to Jackson’s bad attitude. It was a completely normal response.

“You gonna stand there all night sobbing, Stilinski? Because I'm hungry, and there's booze, and I'd like to get this moving,” snarked Jackson, ruining a perfectly decent moment. And ok, now it was totally just an allergic reaction.

“Classy,” Stiles snorted, moving to sit down. “But, uh…” Stiles looked up, meeting eyes with Scott and Allison and then Derek, all of whom looked somehow … expectant? “Thanks. Thank you all. It looks delicious.”

“Thank fuck, let's eat.” 

“Sure thing, Jackson.”

 

“Happy New Year’s, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice hushed in a way that felt somehow special, delicate.

“It's not New Year’s yet,” Stiles said back, nodding towards the countdown on the TV, where Ryan Seacrest was shouting something excitedly at a freezing crowd of people. “We still have a full minute.”

Derek looked slightly frustrated, glancing off to the side of the room, where Allison and Scott were staring lovingly at each other. Their party hats somewhat diminished the effect. 

“30 seconds!” Erica yelled, running behind the couch Stiles and Derek were plopped on, haphazardly swinging a party hat onto Derek’s head. He glared after her half heartedly.

20 seconds.

“But I guess it really feels like New Year’s now,” Stiles grinned, reaching up to adjust Derek's hat. How did he still look so good in a ridiculous hat? “What with your hat, and that surprise dinner, I’d say it feels more like New Year’s for me than it has in a long time.” 

Derek’s face softened, and around them the pack began to enthusiastically and not a little drunkenly shout down the seconds.

Ten.

Nine.

Stiles guessed this was about the best New Year’s he'd ever had.

Eight.

Seven. 

Stiles guessed he could go another year with being half in love with Derek, and without Derek being at all in love with him. 

Six.

Five.

Stiles wondered if maybe he wasn't half in love anymore.

Four.

Three.

Maybe he was all in love. Maybe being in love was frozen broccoli and mediocre hats and pickled herring. Maybe he loved Derek all the way - no reserves. 

Two.

Maybe he could wait forever for Derek. Maybe - 

One. 

Maybe someone’s lips were on Stiles’.

Stiles was frozen in shock, the noise of the room and the TV fading to somewhere far, far away. 

That was Derek.

Those were Derek’s lips.

Before Stiles could truly kiss back, Derek pulled back just a couple millimeters, his stupid stubble nearly touching Stiles’ face, his dumbly beautiful eyes staring right at Stiles.

“Happy New Year’s,” he whispered.

And Stiles felt his lips curl into a smile. 

(Maybe Peter Hale had been right. Maybe they were both idiots.) 

“Happy New Year’s,” Stiles whispered back.

And then they were kissing again, for real this time, lips moving warmly over each other, Derek’s hands coming up to cup Stiles’ face. 

“So does this mean you're officially the pack mom?” Erica shouted directly into Stiles’ left ear, laughing when he spluttered and fell off the couch.

And maybe some things never changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I googled it, and Polish people really do eat pickled herring on New Year's. (However, if anyone from Poland wants to correct anything I've said, please do!) Also feel free to leave reviews! They mean the world to me.
> 
> I also have a tumblr that you can totally contact me on: http://thestatestreetscoopsgirl.tumblr.com/


End file.
